


The Adventure Of The Dead Cardinal (1895)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [146]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Dogs, Johnlock - Freeform, League of Temperance, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Poisoning, Threats, Vatican
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 20:36:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11387919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Animals as well as humans benefited from Sherlock's great talents – and those who did wrong, thinking that it was 'only an animal' were, in my genius friend's eyes, equally deserving of his attentions.





	The Adventure Of The Dead Cardinal (1895)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the death of Cardinal Tosca'.

Contrary to what Sherlock said, I did not preen! However, the review in the “Times” of his latest adventure that I had had published in the Strand magazine, that concerning the Golden Pince-Nez, had been some way beyond glowing. I redoubled my efforts to finish our Wembley adventure ('Wisteria Lodge'), and hoped that I would soon have more cases that I would be able lay before the British public, so they could fully understand my friend's genius.

In our next two cases, I was to be disappointed. Which was a pity, because the first went from bullying via an obituary to a narrowly-averted diplomatic crisis!

+~+~+

The hawk-faced young gentleman who sat before us in the fireside chair at Baker Street that cold spring day could easily have been a young clerk or minor government official, though he barely looked his claimed thirty-four years of age. An age I knew because I had read of his appointment as secretary to the papal legate a few months back, as I knew his name was Mr. Pietro Falcone. The case that he had brought to us was to prove most definitely one of the strangest that Sherlock had ever come across, and one where the consequences could have been quite serious, yet one that had both comedy and tragedy in its origins. Though the look on Mr. Falcone’s face that April morn was definitely closer to tragedy.

“I have read the good doctor’s stories of your achievements, sir”, our visitor said to Sherlock, “and I know how integral he is to your work. It is a strange case that I lay before you today, as it may be one of murder.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

“You are unsure as to whether someone has been murdered?” he asked, clearly a little bemused.

The answer was even stranger.

“Sir, I am unsure as to whether the 'victim' even existed!”

+~+~+

“To begin with”, our guest said, a look of distaste on his young features, “I must talk a little politics. As you are doubtless aware, the position of the Holy Father at the moment is a precarious one. Ever since the unification of Italy, popes have been all but prisoners behind the walls of the Vatican, whilst the Italian kings have flagrantly and shamelessly stripped the Papacy of its rightful possessions up and down the peninsula. Pope Leo is a good man and surely has many years left in him, but it is what happens next that concerns me. If the Good Lord should gather him to his bosom any time soon, there may well be serious problems.”

I thought back to Verona, and our first venture into papal politics over the stolen cameos soon after. And standing on that famous balcony when we exchanged our first rings. It seemed a lifetime ago, but I felt that ring still on my finger as well as its companion, and smiled. I still had my Sherlock.

“Popes are elected by a conclave, are they not?” my friend said, his slight smile telling me that his thoughts had strayed in a similar direction. Our guest nodded.

“That is where the problem lies”, he said. “The cardinals who make the decision are very finely balanced, between what in this country one might term conservatives and liberals. One influential or charismatic cardinal with a few followers could swing things either way. It is that which has brought me to your door today.”

He opened his polished brown brief-case and extracted “Times” (renowned for its excellent book reviews), which was folded to a certain page. He handed it to Sherlock, who read the marked item before passing it to me. The article read as follows:

‘Regrets for the untimely passing of the late lamented Cardinal Tosca. Be ye blest with an inside track to heaven, where all such souls rightly go.’

“Who is this ‘Cardinal Tosca’?” Sherlock asked. Our visitor shrugged his shoulders.

“We have no idea”, he said, shrugging his narrow shoulders. “Unfortunately all the recent upheaval means that we have lost touch with many of the more distant cardinals, and as the last election was seventeen years ago, our records are not just incomplete but out-of-date. The instability caused by such a tiny article has been awful. Both sides suspect the other of removing someone from their side, and there may even be a schism. All because of two lines in a foreign newspaper!”

_(It should be noted at this point that the Thunderer of those times was more powerful than it is today, and that it had successfully forced changes on government and businesses on more than one occasion)._

Sherlock frowned.

“This is a private article”, he said. “Surely it would be possible to approach the newspaper and ask them for the name of the person who had submitted it? I know that the “Times” protects its own, but if they came to understand the political ramifications, surely they might make an exception?”

Our visitor blushed.

“With things the way they are”, he said carefully, “I was summonsed back to Rome last week to talk directly with the Holy Father himself. Neither side trusts the other to investigate the case fairly, and sorry to say, there is a rabid distrust of foreign police – but your name, sir, is renowned, and everyone knows that you follow the path of justice. I am instructed to ask if you would be so kind as to investigate this matter for us, to whatever conclusion you may reach.”

I knew that, despite his angelic middle name, Sherlock had little in the way of religion himself. I myself did not go to the Sunday services, but liked to spend some time quietly by myself in the local parish church when no-one else was about.

“I would be honoured to take the case”, my friend said with a smile. 

“If you bring your findings to my house when you are done, I can send them to Rome securely”, Mr. Falcone said, looking relieved as he depositing a card onto the fireside table. “Though of course we would telegraph the Holy Father first, to assure him that all was well. If, that is, all _is_ well.”

He stood and bowed to us, then left. Sherlock stared thoughtfully into the fire. 

“This is odd”, I said. “It cannot be murder, surely? One does not murder someone, and then advertise the fact in the “Times”, of all places!”

He smiled.

“Unless, of course, the entire plan is aimed at causing the instability in the Vatican that our friend is concerned about”, he observed. “Remember, Pope Leo still has to recognize King Umberto as a rightful ruler, and that must sting, as it means many Catholics around the world will feel compelled to follow his lead. The Italian monarchy might perhaps feel that an unstable Vatican could cause Pope Leo or his successor to ‘come to heel’, so to speak.”

“Damn foreigners!” I said fervently.

Sherlock smiled.

+~+~+

That same afternoon, we went to the offices of the “Times”. The clerk who greeted us was polite enough, but unfortunately the article had been placed anonymously and paid for in cash. It seemed that we were at a dead-end, and Sherlock might have to call in his brother Bacchus for help, which for me was an awful thought.

Our evening back at Baker Street was interrupted, however, by the arrival of a young fellow of around twenty-five years of age, who introduced himself as a Mr. Peter Tadworth, a clerk at the very newspaper that we had not long come from. He had overheard our conversation with his superior, and whilst he had of course been unable to say anything at the time, he knew our address from my books, and wished to help.

“I was there when the gentleman put the article in”, he said, “though Ben – Mr. Potter who you spoke to – was the one who took it all down. The man gave his name, but then asked that the article be anonymous. Mr. Potter had presumably not written it down then, so he just wrote 'anon', as we do. The name given was Mr. Alfred Wright.”

“A common enough name”, I said with a sigh. “There must be dozens of them in London.”

“Can you describe him at all?” Sherlock asked.

“Between forty and fifty, grey hair, medium build”, the young clerk said. “His clothes were dark and a little shabby. He had the purple temperance badge sewn into his cloak; I saw it as he took it off the coat-stand. Oh, and his accent was not from our area, though I am fairly sure that it was from somewhere in London.”

“Thank you for bringing this information to us”, Sherlock said, slipping him a coin. The young man’s eyes lit up when he saw it (my friend was always far too generous with people, in my opinion), and he bowed himself out, almost falling over his feet in the process. I strongly suspected that the local taverns were about to become equally if not even more appreciative of my friend's munificence.

“I shall probably still have to call in the resources of my irritating brother after all”, Sherlock said with a sigh. “The temperance movements are not much less secretive than the Thunderer, at the end of the day.”

“After all the times that you have saved his bacon, he should be pleased to help you”, I insisted. 

He smiled, and jotted down a telegram before summoning a boy. It was late, but if his brother got the note tonight, then perhaps by tomorrow or the day after, we could be on our way.

+~+~+

It turned out that I had been right about the commonness of the article-writer’s name, and we were fortunate that young Mr. Tadworth had been so observant over the temperance badge. Bacchus had had to rush off to France for some crisis or other, but his note was passed to his brother Lucius, who swiftly found four temperance society Alfred Wrights for us that were roughly in the right age range and who all lived in the London area. Two were members at a society based in the Minories, a third at one in King’s Cross, and a fourth further out at one in Walthamstow. Since his message reached us relatively late in the day, we decided to wait until the next day to visit all three.

However, that day and the next saw London embraced in a pea-souper of a fog, and all travel seemed inadvisable. I spent the morning of the following day working on my writings, whilst Sherlock went out to see a client over some trifling little matter. At least it had seemed trifling, but when he did not come back for lunch as he had planned, I started to worry. And even more so when dinner came up and he was still not back.

When he did finally come back through the door, it was quickly clear that he was in a foul mood. I hurried over to him.

“Have you eaten?” I asked anxiously.

He shook his head, and shuddered as he all but fell into me.

“Family!” he muttered angrily.

I surmised, correctly as it would turn out, that Sherlock's family had once more done something to upset him. _Plus ca change..._

“Shall we go out for some food?” I suggested. “I do not want to risk Mrs. Harvelle's wrath this late in the evening, though as it is you, I am sure she would not mind.”

He shook his head again.

“She is making me some sandwiches”, he said, peeling himself away from me. I immediately felt cold at his absence. I am soaked to the skin. I need to change.”

He almost staggered across to his door and closed it behind him. only minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and with Mrs. Harvelle's usual hyper-efficiency it was a maid with Sherlock's food - bacon sandwiches, bless the woman! I thanked her and took them to the table, then went over to his room. For once I didn't knock, but walked straight in. He was just standing by the bed, still in his wet clothes and looking totally forlorn. My heart bled for the little scruffian.

“Come on”, I said firmly. He needed warming up, and the first job was to get him out of those sodden layers. I stripped him as quickly as I could, then led him unprotestingly to the bathroom, where I stared to run a hot bath, adding his favourite bubble-bath under the steaming water. I was testing the waters when he suddenly grabbed me by the arm.

“Don't leave me!” he said urgently.

“Never!” I said firmly. I left the door open as I went to fetch his sandwiches, and there was something perilously close to a smile as he devoured them ravenously. Once the bath was full I turned off the tap and shrugged off my dressing-gown – fortunately I had got ready for bed shortly before his return – then I led him into the bath and sat us both down, his smaller form nestling back into mine with a contented sigh amidst the foaming bubbles.

Sherlock slowly unwound to me as to why he had been gone for so long. The 'client' had turned out to be a ruse for Sherlock's father and his brothers Mycroft and Ranulph to see him, and he had been far from pleased. It was over Mr. Lucius Holmes, and I have to say that I was quite surprised at what my friend had to say. I knew that the renegade second son had never married, although I supposed that he had had several lady-friends, but now he had shocked his family by taking up with a distant (third, once removed) cousin. A male cousin, one Mr. Samandriel Tyler, who had moved into Lucius' London home.

I am sure that some modern readers of this story are probably scratching their heads and asking the obvious question, namely what was the difference between myself and Sherlock on one hand, and Lucius and Alfie (as he was, I later found out, commonly called) on the other. Unfortunately matters were complicated by two things. The first was; the fact that Lucius (being Lucius) was very open about living with another man; it may seem strange today, but Victorians could cope with consenting adults doing pretty much what they liked behind closed doors provided that they did not flaunt their relationships in front of other people. Much as I liked Lucius, who along with his sister Mrs. Thompson was one of the better Holmeses, I had to admit that he was about as subtle as a rampaging elephant.

The second thing that made matters as bad as they were was that young Mr. Tyler's branch of the family had a feud with Sherlock's one that made the Borgias look like a mild argument over the last cream cake. Mr. John Tyler, Alfie's father, had crossed swords with not only Sir Charles but also Mycroft Holmes, and with Lucius being over twenty years older than his familial lover.... well!

One last factor – and this was where poor Sherlock had got dragged into things – was the lack of grandsons for Sir Charles and Lady Rebecca. Mycroft, their eldest son, had had four daughters by now, and his wife had refused to try for any more after her doctor had advised against it. Ranulph was unmarried, which I suppose reflected at least some good taste on the capital's female population. Gaylord and Bacchus were similarly single (although I would have put good money on the lounge-lizard having more than one offspring somewhere or other!) and only Anna, Mrs. Thompson, had two sons from her marriage, who were not of course called Holmes. Yet his brothers (Lucius excepted) had now somehow decided that it was all Sherlock's fault that there were no third-generation male Holmeses.

The man nestled into me even further, seemingly trying to push me out of the bath, and I began to soap him down gently, working the cold out of his tired body. We might both be men, but as far as I was concerned Sherlock was my true love, and it was my job to care for him. Always and forever.

+~+~+

Sherlock said nothing about his family problems the following day, but the look he gave me when I held him that morning was of such undying gratitude that I nearly burst with happiness. Fortunately the fog had cleared enough for us to set out on our travels, and we started with the Alfred Wright in King’s Cross. 

“Fifty-nine, widowed and a bank clerk”, I said dubiously. “He does not exactly seem to have got on in life.”

“That from a forty-three-year-old man who not so long ago was panicking about how old he was?” Sherlock teased. 

I swatted at him. I had been more than energetic enough the night before when he had demanded that I take him before we both fell asleep, and he should have remembered that. I certainly did!

“I wonder what made him drink?” I mused.

“His file says that his wife died some years back”, Sherlock observed. “Possibly that drove him to alcohol. His society friends say that he has been sober for at least a year, now.”

“How can they be sure?” I wondered. 

“No-one can”, Sherlock said. “Every man is, to a certain extent his own judge, jury and executioner. But I dare say that the society has various ways and means of detecting those who have ‘fallen off the wagon’.”

Alfred Wright (number one) lived in a small terraced house not far from the Great Northern Railway’s terminus. It was a mean building, but the outside looked well cared-for. It was a day off from the bank, as he only worked three days a week there. He had no idea about the advertisement, or any clue as to who ‘Cardinal Tosca’ was. 

We met further dead-ends with the two Alfred Wrights in the Minories; the first had been down with chicken-pox for the past two weeks (a neighbour subsequently confirmed this), and the other, although matching the physical description fairly well, had been visiting a relative in Ilford on the day in question. He had kept the ticket for his nephew who collected such things, and was quite happy to show it to us.

“Though he could have been lying”, I said, feeling even as I spoke that I was clutching at straws. 

“To what end?” Sherlock asked. “He must know that we could check his story at the station, or even with his relative. No, if our last port of call does not yield anything, we are faced with the fact that the man who placed the article used a pseudonym. In short, we would have very little to go on.”

+~+~+

The fourth Alfred Wright was not too far out age-wise at around thirty-five, but had striking blond-white hair and was a little over six foot tall. One look at him told me that we would not be lucky here. But as so often, I was to be proved wrong. Sherlock showed him the advertisement, and we both saw immediately how the man reddened. 

“It really is devilishly awkward”, he said. “It is not my place to tell you, and I would really appreciate it if you kept my name out of things.”

“Despite the doctor’s popular writings, we can be surprisingly discreet”, Sherlock said, avoiding my icy glare. “If you can supply us with any information to solve this case, we would not reveal to anyone how we came by it.”

“May I ask how you came by my name?” Mr. Wright asked.

“The gentleman who placed this advertisement gave his name over the counter”, Sherlock explained, “and a source of ours – whom of course we may not name – passed the information onto us.”

“The man you want is a fellow member of the society”, the man said. “His name is Hieronymous Utterthwaite, so I cannot wonder that he preferred to use my name, even for an anonymous article. In the circumstances, I suppose that I must forgive him.”

“Forties, grey hair, shabby clothes and of medium build?” I asked.

“He is fifty-two, but yes, that sounds like him”, Mr, Wright said. “And this is the sort of thing that he would do. We work at the same bank, you see, and some of the other men teased him about this when they read it, the bastards.”

“So you know who ‘Cardinal Tosca’ is?” I asked.

He smiled, looking a little sad as he did so.

“I think it best if Mr. Utterthwaite tells you the tale himself”, he said, before smiling strangely. “I will tell you one thing though, gentleman. Cardinal Tosca is – or was – female!”

I stared in astonishment.

+~+~+

Mr. Hieronymous Utterthwaite lived in Hackney, so we took the train back as far as Hackney Downs Station before a short cab ride took us to his house, which though modest backed onto open fields. There was no answer when we came to the door, so we went round the back. A middle aged man was sat reading on a bench, a greyhound resting at his feet, looking supremely bored at his master’s inactivity. It looked up as we approached, then dismissed us as uninteresting and laid its head down again.

“Mr. Hieronymous Utterthwaite?” Sherlock asked.

There was a smile in his voice, and I looked at him in surprise. He knew something. But what?

“I am, sirs”, the man said politely. “And you are?”

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson”, Sherlock said. “We have come about your article in the “Times”.”

The man turned a strange shade of red.

“I have heard of your fame, Mr. Holmes, but I hardly think my private matters merit your interest, especially after the ribbing that I have endured at work as of late.”

Sherlock did not reply, but looked down at the dog.

“Who is this?” he asked. The man looked at him suspiciously.

“This is Cate”, he said shortly. 

“Yet dogs, like horses, sometimes have longer official names”, Sherlock said. “Does 'Cate' partake in these new greyhound races that are all the rage?”

“She is too young”, the man said defensively. “When she is a little older, I may enter her.”

“And she is named after her mother, is she not?” Sherlock asked. 

I still had no idea what he was driving at, but if possible Mr. Utterthwaite turned even redder.

“You know!" he said sullenly.

“You may care to learn”, Sherlock said, “that much as I sympathize with and even condone your actions, your fond farewell nearly generated an international incident.”

“What?” the man exclaimed, clearly shocked. “How?”

“When the different factions at the papal court in Rome read about the death of one ‘Cardinal Tosca', they did what those in power are best at”, Sherlock said. “Panic. Each assumed that the other had killed off a cardinal from their side, which given the regular state of Italian politics is perhaps not that unreasonable an assumption. Yet the clues were there, were they not? When you talked about your late dog ‘taking the inside track’, you were referring to a race-track. And the heaven reference was because, per the saying, all dogs go to heaven.”

“Cate is up there now”, the man said confidently. “Heaven would not be Heaven without dogs. My friends think that I am mad to value my canine friends above my human ones, but dogs have always treated me better. Especially of late.”

“May I ask how Cate’s mother died?” Sherlock asked. The man’s face darkened.

“Murdered!” he spat out.

“Who would kill a dog?” I asked.

“Reg Clooney, that’s who!” the man said angrily.

Sherlock gave him a look that said quite clearly ‘explain, please’. The man sighed.

“When I joined the society, they got me a job at the local bank”, Mr. Utterthwaite explained. “Three days a week, on trial for a year, but if I stayed clean, they said they’d consider me for full-time. But Reg wanted his son to join him there, so he thought poisoning poor Cate would make me fall off the wagon.”

“Are you sure of this?” Sherlock asked. The man nodded.

“My neighbour saw him come to my house one day when I was visiting my sister, and drop something in the garden”, he said. “Cate died of eating poisoned meat the next day, and when I looked for it, someone had come round and took it away. Reg boasted about it to his 'friends' at work when I wasn't there, but Alfie Wright overheard and told me in private.”

“I see”, Sherlock said icily. “Pray, which bank do you work at, Mr. Utterthwaite?”

“Dodgson’s, in Tottenham High Road”, he said. “Why?”

“Just curious”, Sherlock said, looking at his watch. He pulled out his notebook and wrote something down, which he passed to Mr. Utterthwaite. “That is the address of one Mr. Alfred Moray. I think you two share a lot in common. You may find a visit to him rather interesting. Thank you for your time, sir. Goodbye, Cardinal Tosca.”

+~+~+

“He nearly caused an international incident by saying farewell to a _dog_?” I asked incredulously as we walked back to the high road to hail a cab. 

“Man’s best friend”, Sherlock reminded me. “Think on it, doctor. We see all types of humanity in our line of work, from the truly good to the purely evil. Yet a dog is only bad if someone deliberately and maliciously trains it so to be. They are the children of our world, and it is unsurprising that people value them so highly.”

“I do not mind dogs”, I said. “It is cats that I am allergic to.”

“Ah.”

I looked at him warily.

“'Ah?'” I said testily. “What do you mean by 'ah'?”

“I may have asked our estimable landlady what she and Mr. Singer would like as a wedding present”, he said, looking anywhere but at me. “And her answer may have had a certain feline quality about it.”

I groaned. Any cat in the neighbourhood seemed to be able to detect my allergy, and would try to clamber all over me if it could. And now 221B might be getting its own!

“Maybe I should get a dog”, I pouted.

Sherlock laughed.

+~+~+

To my surprise, Sherlock directed the cab-driver not to Baker Street but to Mr. Utterthwaite’s bank in Tottenham. Walking in, he asked politely if the manager could spare him a few moments of his precious time. We were shown quickly into the offices of a smartly-attired middle-aged blond fellow called Mr. Oliver Smith, who was clearly of conflicting emotions; pleased to meet someone famous, but nervous lest his bank be dragged into some investigation of ours.

“I would like to begin”, Sherlock said firmly, “by assuring you that the highly sensitive and important international investigation that I have just concluded in no way reflects badly on this illustrious institution.”

Mr. Smith’s relief was palpable.

“That is good news, sir”, he said. “May I ask what brings you here today, then?”

Sherlock leant forward conspiratorially.

“My recent investigation concerned a Major European Power”, he said. “Although I said that your bank was not affected by this case, I have to say that the foolish and _most_ unwise actions of one of your employees brought you a hair's breadth from being dragged right into the middle of it!”

I suppressed a smile. The Papacy was hardly a major power. But the effect on Mr. Smith was strong indeed; he went very pale, and ran his finger around his collar.”

“The strange part was”, Sherlock said, “that the intention of your incompetent and disaster-prone employee was originally merely spiteful, and that he probably – well, I hope that it was probably – did not intend to cause the major repercussions that I have just had to work so hard to prevent. I am _fairly_ sure that when Mr. Reginald Clooney decided to poison the dog of Mr. Hieronymous Utterthwaite, he could not know that such terrible events would unfold as a result. I can only say that luck has played a major part in my investigations, and that the danger is now securely past, though it has been a close-run thing. Had events turned out differently, the whole farrago would have been traced to your bank, and of course _your_ name would have been in _all_ the papers.”

“Papers?” Mr. Smith managed, his eyes wide with shock. 

“National and international”, Sherlock said firmly. “And I am sure that I do not have to remind someone as intelligent as yourself that our visit today was _purely_ a courtesy call, and that we discussed absolutely nothing whatsoever of any great import.” He paused, and leant forward. _“Or do I?”_

He stared meaningfully at the bank manager, who looked as if he might need my professional services any minute. The man's lip was actually quivering.

“But.... all is well now?” he managed. His voice had suddenly gone very high.

“For now”, Sherlock said, “but you may wish to monitor your Mr. Clooney a little more closely in future. He is, as the saying goes, prone to make a full-scale international drama out of a local crisis. The next time he behaves in that way, his employer might not be so fortunate. Remember, you must tell no-one about our visit. Good day, sir.”

He stood up and strode quickly from the room. I hurried after him.

+~+~+

“A 'Major European Power'?” I laughed when we were safely on the train. “Really?”

“I do not like dog-killers”, Sherlock said. “I think that the callous Mr. Clooney may find his life quite difficult over the next few months, and that is as it should be.”

I chuckled again, as our suburban train chuffed its way slowly back to Liverpool Street.

+~+~+

We stayed in the animal world, as in our next case a philanthropist's good deed is repaid in a somewhat unusual fashion.


End file.
